


Welcome to My Table, Bring Your Hunger

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time, just an excuse for Oberyn to rail me really, overly elaborate descriptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26061187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Title from a lyric of The Amazing Devil song, The Horror and the Wild
Relationships: Oberyn Martell/Reader, Oberyn Martell/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 82





	1. Chapter 1

You stood in the shadow of the brothel doorway, shivering. Not from cold. The little mice of fear streaked up and down your spine, cowing you, freezing you to the spot.

The big, intricately carved oak door to the brothel’s main chamber swung open, revealing a beautiful girl clad in a long, deep red robe. “The Prince will see you now.” She gestured ahead of her as if you were an honoured guest rather than a piece of meat about to be tossed to a wolf.

You followed. The sound of the brothel door shutting behind you echoed.

“You live in Westeros?” the girl asked, and you picked up on interest in her tone, as if she actually cared about the answer.

“Yes. All my life.”

She smiled at you, and you forced yourself not to jerk away as she cupped your cheek. “You are very fine. This will please the Prince.” You reached another ornate doorway. From beneath, the heavy scent of wine and lavender curled out, wrapping around you like a lover’s embrace. The girl rang a bell.

Footsteps, then, the door opened inwards, the light inside red, gold, intimate. You caught a glimpse of long crimson chaises, golden pillows, a big, stuffed bed.

“Thank you, Larris. You may leave us.”

The girl curtsied, removing the only barrier between you and Prince Oberyn Martell.

A full head taller than you, he lounged against the doorjamb, the golden robe he wore open to reveal a swathe of golden skin. You did you best to focus on his face, all planes and angles and big, soulful brown eyes, bracketed by carefully curated facial hair on his top lip and hugging his jaw. 

“So,” he began, in a lazy drawl, the husky-edged timbre of which made your stomach clench, “I am told that you are here for my pleasure.”

He dropped his voice half an octave on the last word. You shivered, but this time, not entirely in fear.

You bobbed your head under the hood of your cloak. “My father is a local baron. Our land is plagued by pests. He hoped - we hoped, that your arrival in Westeros means the Seven Kingdoms may reunite and that your presence is an omen of good fortune.”

Oberyn’s brow winged up. “Is that so,” he murmured, stroking a hand over his chin thoughtfully. “And for your part?”

You hesitated, heart still fluttering. “My part of what?”

His gaze flicked over you, those big brown eyes impossible to read. “Do you agree that being offered to me will help your land?”

Your throat dried up. No one had ever  _ asked _ your opinion before. On anything. “I-”

Oberyn stepped back, holding the heavy door. “Perhaps you will come in. Sit, eat, drink.”

Sit, eat, drink? Your skin crawled with nerves and anticipation. What had you thought would happen? Some part of you just wanted him to hurry up and  _ take _ you, so you could get this over with and go back to the farm, where you were safe, if very bored.

With not much choice to do otherwise, you followed his lead. When the door swung shut, the Prince lifted his hands to the hood of your cloak. “May I?”

You swallowed jerkily. “You don’t have to ask.”

Amusement tugged up the corner of his mouth - lips made for sin, you noted. “I am a Prince, my dear, not an animal. So. May I?”

“Yes.”

His hands were gentle, a silver thumb ring glinting in the half light as he lowered your hood, his hands brushing your hair. Your father had combed the curls until they shone this morning. 

With a gentleness you had not expected, Oberyn cupped your face, smoothing the pad of his thumb over your lower lip. “Quite stunning,” he murmured. “Are you afraid of me, little daffodil? As yet unplucked, I’d wager.”

A blush crept up your neck.

“I am right, I see.” The Prince dropped his hand, chewing his lower lip pensively. “Do you fear me?”

“Should I?” you whispered.

“No,” he replied, voice as soft as feather. “We do not force women in Dorne. Well,” he chuckled, “To obey the laws of all Dornishmen, yes. In matters of pleasure, never. Should you wish, you may return to your father and inform him that I give my blessing to your lands.”

You gazed at him wide-eyed. “And that’s it?”

Oberyn gestured with one open palm. “That is it. Do you think I lack for eager bed partners, little daffodil? That I must stoop to deflowering young women against their wishes?”

His voice still held that lazy quality, but steel lay beneath it. You bowed your head. “Forgive me, my Lord.”

The Prince turned and dropped on to one of the blood-red chaises. “Come, sit.” He snapped his fingers and a curtain at the back of the room parted, revealing a nubile young man, his shock of dark hair spilling down his back, carrying a tray set with two goblets and festooned with a pile of sweetmeats.

Oberyn gestured and the man set the silver platter down on an ornately carved side table and bowed. The Prince thanked him and he again disappeared behind the heavy curtain.

Helpless to do otherwise, you sat a polite distance away from the man called The Red Viper, fussing with the skirt of your dress - your best one. Your father had smoothed his hands over your shoulders, telling you in the mirror how beautiful you looked, how you would save everyone simply by sacrificing a tiny part of yourself that belonged to a man, anyway.

The Prince lifted a tiny sweetmeat and turned, holding the morsel up to your lips. It smelled sweet, sugary, enticing. “Can I tempt you, little daffodil?”

His autumnal gaze held yours and your mouth opened almost without volition. Oberyn slipped the treat inside and sweetness exploded on your tongue. The closest you’d ever come to this taste were the tiny cones of sugar that you were allowed on name days.

“Another?”

You nodded, watching as the Dornish Prince’s eyes roved over the platter. An elegant hand selected another treat.

“My favourite as a child. I had a trunk brought with us; such treasurers are unavailable here.” He brushed the tiny square over your lips and you opened again. This time the flavours of strawberry and mint coated your tongue, sweet and sour and unlike anything you’d experienced before.

“Such pleasure I could show you,” Oberyn murmured, his husky voice low, melodic and intimate. He settled a hand on your thigh, one finger drawing small circles on your leg through the thick fabric of your gown. “Do you wish it? Or would you rather return home chaste, hmm? Untouched and at the mercy of a sloppy, overexcited young boy on your wedding night?”

Your inner muscles fluttered. 

You always assumed you’d be married to the son of another local baron; hadn’t really questioned it. But facing Prince Oberyn Martell, the famed Red Viper, you drank in his golden skin and curling dark hair and soulful brown eyes, and all the faceless, pale boys of Westeros simply fell away.

You had assumed a lot of things, it seemed.

“Yes, please,” you murmured.

He shifted closer, just a few breaths away, and stroked a finger down your face, his touch leaving little licks of wildfire in its wake. “Which?”

“You.”

A little growl escaped his throat and he set to work unbuckling the fastening of your cloak, until the buckle parted and the heavy wool slid down your shoulders and pooled on the chaise. You inhaled, breathing in warm spices, thyme, oregano, and just a kiss of bergamot. Exotic, enticing, unforgettable.

You let your eyes drift closed as Oberyn cupped your face in his sword-callused hands, the texture of his skin sending waves of goosebumps over yours. When his mouth brushed yours, he was gentle, a butterfly-wings kiss, kindling the tiny flame within you. He tasted of rich red wine, edged with the sugary sweetmeats, and when he traced your lower lip with his tongue, you opened for him, eager to learn more of his flavour.

He kissed you languidly, for moments that stretched and stretched, his hands in your hair, teasing, caressing, eventually breaking to reach for a slender golden goblet. He tipped it to your lips, the metal warm on your skin, sensitive from his attention.

“Drink. Do not swallow.”

You obeyed, the liquid pooling in your mouth, smooth, heavily spiced. Oberyn removed the cup and a slow smile crept over his face. “I want to taste it from your lips.”

When he kissed you, you opened for him readily, and he licked into your mouth, some of the wine dripping from between where your lips met and spilling on Oberyn’s fine golden robe. He appeared to neither notice nor care.

“Delicious,” he proclaimed at length, reaching for a soft cloth to wipe the excess wine from your chin. “Fine indeed. Now. Have I piqued your curiosity, little daffodil?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Oberyn clucked his tongue. “Such titles are for beyond the bedroom, don’t you think? Between the sheets we are simply two souls chasing each other’s pleasure.”

His words filled the space between your bodies and you pressed your thighs together, half giddy with the sweet, slow anticipation, half wondering when he would just  _ do it _ to you to fulfill your curiosity.

“And speaking of pleasure….” He dropped the soiled cloth on the platter, his hands coming to rest on the laces of your gown. “The time has come for me to give you more.”

You lowered your gaze to watch him deftly unlace the front of your gown in fluid motions. His hands were tanned, wide palms, long fingers, sword calluses lending topography. For the first time you imagined how those calluses would feel when he slid his hands up your legs; spread your thighs.

And at that image you must have made some sound, because Oberyn  _ hmmmmed _ in approval. “You like it when I touch you, mmm?”

“Yes.”

“My favourite word, especially from your lips. Again.”

“Yes,” you murmured, as your gown finally came loose and he filled his hands with the spill of your breasts, nipples already firm at the brush of air, and his thumbs.

“Lie back,” he instructed in that voice made for sin, and you followed his lead. He moved over you on the chaise, settling his weight into you, his robe gaping, giving you an excellent view of the smooth plane of his chest and abdomen, and the dark arrow of hair that disappeared into his linen trousers. The moment his lips touched your nipple, pleasured arced through your body. He licked and sucked, and the warmth pooled low in your body. His tongue was warm, wet, just a little rough, the friction beyond delicious.

“Come, touch me, little daffodil,” he whispered against your sensitive flesh, and you did as he bid, spearing your hands into his hair to hold him in place as he moved between your breasts, taking his time.

A low groan escaped his lips, and against your thigh you felt the evidence of desire, larger than you’d expected, hot, heavy. Your inner muscles clenched unexpectedly, your hips rolled into his, chasing the delicious friction, a chant of  _ more, more, more _ setting itself up in your head.

“Ah,” the Prince whispered against the curve of your breast. “The daffodil blooms.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get closer to discovering what being with a Prince is like.

_ Bloom _ was the right word, you thought hazily as the Prince continued to lazily lick, nip and suck at you, taking his time, apparently unbothered by his own wants or needs. Deep inside you, your muscles fluttered impatiently, a flower whose petals were unfurling for the first time, reaching for the sunlight.

With slow movements Oberyn continued to unlace your gown, gently pushing it off your shoulders, lifting your arms free one at a time. Once your torso lay bare, he sat up, pulled the cord on his robe loose and let the fabric slide off the chaise and pool on the floor, unmissed. The low light in the brothel kissed his broad shoulders and lithely muscled physique. Without thought, you held out your arms for him and a slow smile curved one side of his mouth. As he settled down on top of you, all smooth, golden skin, warm planes and angles, his beauty took your breath away.

You spread your palms over his back as he laved your pulse point and then bit gently into the curve where your neck met your shoulder. His teeth sank in deep enough to leave a mark, and your pulse rabbited, not in fear, but  _ delight. _ You would have something of him when you left here, a mark to smooth your finger over and remember that this had not been merely a fever dream.

Oberyn shifted a little, settling between your thighs. The warm weight of him made you buck your hips without volition, teasing a little groan from his lips. The sound pooled heat in your lower body, and you slid one hand down to his backside, encouraging him to move forward again. He set up a slow rhythm, butting into you gently, but firmly enough that you spread your legs to gain access to  _ more. _ If he continued you might explode; if he stopped you might die.

A desperate little mewl slipped past your lips and Oberyn lifted his face from your neck. “Impatient, little daffodil?”

“ _ Yes. _ ”

“Very well.” He slid his arms under your torso and then rolled on to his back, taking you with him. As you sprawled over the firm, muscles lines of his body, he smoothed his hands down your naked back, his hands meeting the fabric of your gown and pushing until the heavy fabric’s own weight pulled it off your legs and on to the floor. Without the barrier of the damask, the thin silk of your underwear left little about Oberyn’s aroused state to your imagination.

You ground into him on instinct, the little movement fitting him between your legs perfectly.

“It seems I am a little overdressed for this dance,” the Prince murmured against your lips, his voice sweet as honey warming in afternoon sunshine.

“Let me?” you asked. It was easier somehow, without clothes. Less intimidating. Without clothes, without his golden robe and without the dress your father had trussed you up like a gift in, you were just two people who wanted each other.

“Please, be my guest,” he murmured back, and you met his gaze, his eyes dark and hot, and you felt like a moth helplessly drawn to his flame, in danger of getting your wings burned, but never backing away. 

You drew yourself into a sitting position on his thighs, biting your lip at the snap of heat in his eyes at the way your breasts moved. Oberyn lifted his hands up and stroked up your ribs, cupping the weight of your breasts in his palms as you worked at the laces on his soft brown trousers, the backs of your fingers brushing his erection through the flocked fabric. A satisfied sigh left his lips at your touch, and curiosity stirred within you about his previous bed partners.

“Your thoughts are quite loud,” he observed, thumb lazily flicking your nipple, each little tug sending a spark of heat to your core.

“Have you….. Taken someone’s virginity before?”

The Prince chuckled, his voice low. “A man’s, yes. A woman’s, no. So this will be a first for us both, little flower.”

His words gave you pause, and you looked into his eyes, focused on you, his face open, expressive, and a tiny kernel of hope that he would, later,  _ remember you, _ unfurled in your heart. It was a fool’s romantic notion, but you felt it anyway.

His cock twitched under your hands, bringing you back to the present. Your mouth watered at the hot, hard feel of him, and you finished undoing the laces. Without underwear he was bared to your eyes, curving up against his stomach, and you sucked in a breath. You clenched your hands into fists.

“I am yours to explore,” Oberyn murmured in that enticing, syrupy drawl. “My body a map, and you, the navigator.” He lazily stroked and petted you, the picture of relaxation, but you noticed the way sweat beaded on his brow, the tremble of his erection when you stroked a curious finger down it.

He let his head fall back, exposing the line of his neck as you played, tentative at first, tracing veins, stroking the ridges and curves of him, wrapping your hand around his girth, cataloguing his sighs and hisses of breath, learning which touch produced which sound.

“A fast learner,” he praised, his voice hitching, and just that small break sent such a rush of arousal straight to your core. The fact that  _ you _ could make him lose that languid control. “More.”

The command rolled off his tongue and, giddily, you decided to put your own to good use. You’d heard the washerwomen talking about such things, and who better to experience it with than an actual Prince?

His hands fell from your breasts as you slid down his body, taking the time to ease his trousers off his legs.

“A bold explorer,” Oberyn praised as you lay down between his legs, the line of his neck kissed by the low brothel lighting. A little nervous, you started the routine of petting and caressing him again, drinking in his little sighs and his deep inhales, watching liquid bead on the tip and smoothing it over his skin, the heat stoked in your cunt the wetter you made him.

And then you go bold enough to take him in your mouth, and a low growl rose from his throat, a tiger waking up to find himself caged.

He tasted salty-sweet, and, unfamiliar, you licked him like a sugar cone, teasing your tongue into the ridges and valleys of him, drinking up every bit of slick he produced. A low  _ whimper _ from his lips made your confidence soar and you let your hands play too, learning his flavour for moments that seemed to stretch into hours. 

Before long he writhed beneath you, his hands in your hair, fingers tangled in the strands, and you took a second to glance up, to see his back arched in pleasure, eyes closed, his dark lashes thick on his cheekbones.

_ Is this what making love is? _ You wondered. The other person totally surrendering themselves to you, trusting their pleasure to your hands, mouth, heart? Letting you learn the music of their sighs and gasps?

Oberyn tugged at your hair gently, and you lifted your mouth off his cock.

“You make me forget myself. I promised you pleasure, hmmm? Let me show you what a promise is worth in Dorne.”

  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A smutty conclusion.

He undressed you slowly, stroking each piece of remaining clothing from your body until the fabric pooled on the cherrywood floor, the soft rustle like the whispered sharing of a secret between you.

“I want you.”

“Patience, daffodil.” And Oberyn lifted you on to the chaise and spread your legs, kneeling between them. “Tonight, I am no Prince. I am simply a man on his knees, asking to worship a beautiful flower, its petals untouched thus far. And will you grant me entry, hmm?” His gaze held yours as he kissed his way up your thigh, his groomed beard tickling gently. You threaded your hands through his hair, soft as silk.

“You can have anything you want,” you heard yourself say, breathily.

He chuckled, and you heard the smile in his voice. “Anything?”

“Anything.” You leaned back on your forearms, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of the chaise.

You let your gaze drop to where he knelt at your feet as if  _ you _ were the royalty, the beautiful one, the one who commanded attention and reverence.

His cock curved, hard and needy, against his belly, and you ate it up with your eyes, the silky hair at his base, the shiny head, dark red and swollen with desire.

Oberyn followed the path of your interest and curved a hand around himself, lazily stroking his length while looking up at you, soulful eyes hooded. “Your pleasure, first,” he decided, and then he put his mouth on you, his free hand holding your thigh, thumb stroking in small circles, like he was calming a skittish foal.

His tongue danced lightly over you, and pleasure spiked. You gasped out loud, your finger clenching in his hair.

“Like that, little flower,” he murmured in that husky-edged voice made for sin. “Open for me.”

And you let him in, releasing a long slow breath as he licks into you, giving his all, and he manages to make you frantic and languid, unspeakably heated yet calm, working you expertly, every curve of his tongue a note in a song tailored just for you. When he added one finger at a time so your muscles can clench around him, it was bliss untold, a perfect fit, and the music he made with the lines of your body reached a crescendo and you came in a hot rush, groaning his name as he stroked and petted you through it. The sight of his dark head moving between your thighs prolonged for your orgasm.

When he sat back, a smile played on his lips that was sensual and satisfied, but not smug. As if he was pleased because  _ you _ were pleased, not simply because of his prowess, and in that moment you thought that perhaps you loved him.

And you didn’t care for propriety or how you should treat a Prince when you pulled him up to you, kissing him, the taste of you lingering on his lips, mingled with the wine, and it was heady and you thought perhaps, this was debauchery. And you liked it.

“Ready for me, little one?” he whispered against your lips, one elegant hand cupping your cheek, and you leaned into his touch.

You nodded. He was so beautiful and you were temporarily incapable of speech.

Oberyn gathered you close and kissed your forehead, then lay you back on the chaise. His brown gaze held yours as he moved over you, lean, lithe, with a panther’s predatory grace. You opened your arms and he gave himself to you, pressing his chest to yours, parting your legs with a knee, and then he took himself in hand and rubbed the tip of him through your wet folds, over and over, until you keened his name and thought you might go mad from the wanting.

“Please.”

“Say my name, daffodil.”

“ _ Oberyn. _ ”

He groaned, long and low, at that, and started to push inside you. “There will be pain for but a minute, sweeting.” He kissed his way up your neck, and then took your mouth, slipping his tongue inside, mimicking the actions lower down your body, and gradually you relaxed by increments as he breached you, one perfect, breathtaking centimetre at a time.

You gasped at the feeling of  _ fullness _ that slowly overtook the sore sensation. Oberyn stayed very still once he was fully seated, drawing back to look into your eyes, concern drawing his brows together. 

“All is well?”

You nodded.

“I wish to hear the words, little one.”

You cupped his dear face in your hands. “Yes. You feel good. This.. feels good.”

In a move so tender your heart squeezed, he briefly pressed his forehead to yours. “Then we can begin.”

And slowly, so slowly you thought you might die from each tiny flutter of your walls around him, he began to move, the pace languid, loving. He caged you in his forearms, bent so he could kiss you as he moved. As the pleasure built stroke by stroke, you held on to his shoulders, hooked your legs around his hips, keeping him close.

“A quick study, then, my little daffodil,” Oberyn praised, and that voice sent shivers of need through you. He murmured your name against your neck and you felt the slow pulse of an orgasm building.

“Touch yourself,” he whispered. “Let me feel your fingers in the place where I am making you mine.”

His words stroked the fire inside you, and you circled the little nub of nerves at your apex as he picked up the pace, and before long you were lifting your hips greedily to meet his. 

Oberyn nipped at your pulsepoint and the tiny hurt sent you over the edge. He growled low in his throat and his thrusts became shallower, before he abruptly pulled out and spent himself on the curve of your belly, panting.

You lay next to each other on the chaise, breathing heavily, and Oberyn turned and kissed your shoulder.

“Let me care for you.”

“More than you already have?” you asked sleepily.

He only smiled, enigmatically, and stood, then came back with a warm cloth. You watched his hand move, silver thumb ring glinting, as he cleaned off his spend and then gently washed your most intimate area.

“Are you cold, daffodil?”

“No. But, I would like you to warm me.”

Oberyn smiled and came back to you, gathering you against him, pulling a throw off a nearby chair and draping it over you both, the fabric soft and warm.

“Come to Dorne,” he murmured against your hair, his hand stroking lazily up and down your back. “Come to Dorne and meet Ellaria. She would  _ adore _ you. And bear me many babes, and run around with them in the sunshine, and let me warm your bed at night.”

You gazed up into his warm, brown eyes. “It sounds like paradise.”

“Dorne  _ is _ paradise. Would you come and learn for yourself? We could eat the sweetest grapes. Fuck our fill. Watch the sun rise.”

You breathed in deeply, pillowing your head on his chest. It was a beautiful dream. And you would think on it. “I should get back to my father. Tell him the land will be saved. Or that I have done my best to achieve it.”

Oberyn cuddled you closer, curling a leg around your calves. “A moment longer.”

And you let yourself drift on a cloud of contentment, his scent wrapped around you and his lips at your ear. 

And everything else would keep.


End file.
